


Blue Means You're Pissed, Right?

by Zoom Zoom (PaperLillyWebs)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gift for the wonderful meredithkarevs on tumblr, Idiots in Love, Jackson Never Left, M/M, Post-Nogitsune, happy belated birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 17:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3701185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperLillyWebs/pseuds/Zoom%20Zoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles, I'm not falling for that. I'm not too stupid to remember freshman year."</p><p>"Yeah, when I use to actually jump out at you!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Means You're Pissed, Right?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meredithkarevs](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=meredithkarevs).



> I sent a headcannon for her birthday, and she added onto it, and I feel bad for not writing stories for any of the other headcannons I've sent, so *shoves* Sorry it's shit.

   Stiles had actually thought that it had been a brilliant idea. He use to fit in Scott’s locker to scare him in Freshman year. It got so bad Scott started avoiding his locker at all costs.

   God, he was a fucking genius, honestly, because now Scott wouldn't see it coming, not after three years of prank silence. Even with Scott's werewolfy senses, Stiles had been in the perfect position to scare the crap out of him on April Fools. 

   And getting in had been easy, shoving Scott's mess aside to wedge himself into the locker. Stiles didn't have to deal with a jacket, Scott had actually left on time today, everything was perfect. 

   Until Stiles had realized that spending three years running around with supes and actually training for lacrosse builds shoulders like nobody's business, and broad shoulders, even when hardly close to any of the wolves' level, do not make for comfortable locker sitting. And when he'd tried to moves to a more appeasing position, Stiles realized that wedge had been an apt word.

  "Oh my god, Scott, let me out," he pleads, Scott's body casting shadows through the vent of the locker thirty minutes later, and the fucker is laughing at him.

  "Stiles, I'm not falling for that. I'm not too stupid to remember freshman year."

  "Yeah, when I use to actually jump out at you!"

  Scott snorts, and leans against the door, probably waiting for Kira 'cause wow he really is an ass like that. "Y'know, I was looking forward to today. Last year you put chili powder in my lacrosse gear, dude. This is just weak."

  Stiles grumbles and tries to move so his knee isn't cramped against the door. "Trust me, it was gonna be awesome, but hey, puberty might have actually hit me."

  Scott outright laughs at that. "Sure, dude. Oh, there's Kira. See you in English, man."

  "Scott, I swear to all fuck, if you do not unlock this, you won't sleep for a—" Scott knocks on the door teasingly and then walks away. _Scott_ , his bestest friend in the _whole world_ , just _walks away._

  Stiles wonders for a moment if this is Scott's joke on him, and that he'll come back and get him, but the bell rings five minutes later, and still no Scott. Five minutes after that, Stiles resigns himself and idly starts kicking at the door, half hoping it'll open on it's own; with it open, he'd have enough room to wriggle out, right? God he hopes so.

  But the door doesn't budge, and he realizes he should have made someone else open the door for him, but no one in their right minds would be out in the halls this far into first period. Stuck until the bell, then. He quickly calculates how long that'll be and the knowledge just makes him groan.

  His head clunks onto the wall behind him, poking at some graffiti from years past. His only hope would be Isaac, if he's in a good mood, but after the toaster debacle of last year, Stiles doubts Isaac will ever leave the house on April Fools. Really, who could blame him.

  Never let it be said that Stiles is unobservant (hyper aware, more like it), but he doesn’t even hear someone approaching until they sit with a thump against his hiding spot ten minutes later.

   He yelps and whacks his head against the top of the locker, which _holy shit how can that hurt so much_ , punching the door in attempt to relocate the pain. And, okay, it’s not as bad as getting his foot stick in a bear trap, or getting shot, but wow is it close.

   Swearing loudly, Stiles wants to murder Scott. His best friend will not escape this week unscathed. He’ll find ice cubes in his socks, and sea monkeys in his milk, and mountain ash around Kira’s house—

   “Stiles?” Jackson’s voice asks in disbelief from the other side of the locker door.

   “Oh Jesus, Jackson, thank god,” he groans in relief, his revenge momentarily forgotten. “I’ve never been so glad to hear your voice. You think you can help me out, maybe?”

   “Stiles, what the hell.”

   “The combo’s 12-3-15.”

   “What are you even—”

   “Just open the door, Jesus Christ.”

   Jackson actually listens to him, and undoes the lock. And Stiles fucking knew if he just could have gotten the door open, he would have been fine, because he uses all his blundering grace to tumble to the floor as soon as he has the space to. Jackson’s foot cushions his head as he hits the tile, and he could not really care less that he’s now sprawled in the middle of a very dirty school hallway because _freedom_.

   Jackson is looking down at him with surprise, just standing there with Stiles’ head on his pretentious-ass shoe.

   “I take back every mean thing I have ever said to you, you are wonderful, you are beautiful.” Stiles sits up and hugs Jackson’s legs like a life raft, mashing his nose into Jackson’s thigh.

   Jackson is quiet for a moment, surprisingly not bitching him out, but then, “Stiles, who did this to you.”

   Stiles blinks and pulls back, looking up at him just in time to see his eyes flash blue. He scrambles to his feet. “Whoa, wait, dude, what.”

  “Who did this to you?” Jackson jerks his chin towards the locker, hands shoved deep enough in his pockets that Stiles can see they’re fists.

  He looks from Jackson to the locker, then back again, aghast because this is _Jackson_ , who didn’t join Derek’s pack because he didn’t want to care about anybody else. Caring about him.

  Stiles isn’t even embarrassed when he gigglesnorts.

  “Stiles,” Jackson grits out.

  “You think that someone put me in there? No, dude, I’m just a stupendously uncoordinated genius with no impulse control; I got _stuck_.” It takes a moment for it to sink in, Jackson chuffing when he gets it. “Seriously though, very heroic, offering to chase down the big baddies to protect my fragile maidenhood.”

  Stiles earns himself the famous Whittemore bitchface. “I just can’t have assholes running around shoving my team into lockers.”

  “You do realize I don’t even play, right.”

  Jackson just rolls his eyes. But Stiles is giddy, and decides that perhaps Scott’s punishment can be lessened, since he _was_  saved. Technically.

  Jackson watches him, expression unimpressed and constipated. As per usual. Seriously, he’d mellowed out a bit since London, but there are still times that remind Stiles he’d called him Jackass since fourth grade.

  “Do I want to ask why you were stick in...” Jackson looks at the contents of Stiles’ hiding spot. “McCall’s locker?”

  Stiles flaps his hand dismissively. “April Fools prank. Do I want to know why you’re ditching class to sit by ‘McCall’s locker’?” Stiles sees his jaw tense, which usually means bad news for him, most likely a shove against the nearest hard surface as Jackson bails from the scene.

  But Jackson shrugs, and Stiles doesn’t miss his quick glance to the locker several down from Scott’s. Allison’s.

  And whoa, shit, Stiles is not prepared to admit he knows that now, or to admit he’s just trod all over a private moment of Jackson’s, so he loudly clears his throat and looks anywhere but Jackson.

  “So, uh...”

  “Stilinski,” he cuts Stiles off as he hefts his backpack up from the floor. “We’re not friends, so please save us all the embarrassment, and don’t even try.”

  “Wow, rude. I was going to extend the metaphorical olive branch, but, hey, someone here doesn’t like metaphors. Also, why Stilinski? You didn’t have a problem calling me Stil—” The fucker shoves a hand over his mouth, and it takes all Stiles has to dodge away from it.

  “Like I said: don’t even try.”

  “I’m so offended right now, I cannot even fathom.”

  Bitch face 2.0 makes a comeback. “I’ve said said way worse.”

  “Is that an apology? ‘Cause I’m not accepting that.”

  “As if,” Jackson snorts.

  Stiles has a bitch rant at the tip of his tongue when the bell rings, and students start flooding the halls again. It’ll have to wait ‘till later, then.

  He clears his throat and grabs his backpack, shutting Scott’s locker, and he fully expects Jackson to have left, but he’s still standing there. Watching him like the emotionally constipated creeper he is.

  “Uh... Thanks. For opening the locker,” Stiles mumbles as they’re swarmed from all sides, already getting shoved by douhebags with backpacks. Jackson watches him for a moment longer, then steps closer, like, _way too close to be acceptable for childhood enemies_.

  Stiles’ back goes ramrod straight, but he doesn’t step away. Jackson’s got a hand on his waist, and his mouth is so close Stiles can feel his breath on his lips when he says, “You’re welcome.”

  And then he’s gone, off down the hallway and swallowed by the crowd. Scott is staring at him from a few feet away, flabbergasted with his mouth hanging open like someone had ripped a rug out from underneath him. Stiles feels the same.

  Scott open and closes his mouth a few times. “Was that—?” He looks past Stiles, where Jackson had disappeared.

  “I— Maybe?”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Bonus ‘Cause I’m Trash** :
> 
> Lydia has to drag Jackson to lacrosse practice because he’s too embarrassed to even show his face in the locker room. She also bans him from saying it was an April Fools joke.


End file.
